Azor Ahai, The Stallion Who Mounts The World
by HeyItsSimone
Summary: Khal Drogo has already taken the bastard daughter of Illyrio Mopatis as his Khalessi. Khal Drogo has taken 60,000 men under his Khalasar. However, his Khallasar is not his to command, instead it is his brother's: The Stallion Who Mounts The World. The only problem is that his brother, Bhargis has been lost at sea for thirteen summers. OC/Harem Fem!Jon
1. Prelude 1

**Prelude**

**Vaes Dothrak**

**281 BC**

Khal Drogo looked upon the man in barely veiled shock. His dark white hair was styled in curly tresses which laid perfectly pinned on his head yet, falling carelessly on his forehead, his tanned skin glistened with the sweat of riding on the black stallion, Daemonfyre, for seven days straight, and his bright golden eyes sparkled with mirth which greatly contrasted with his weary appearance.

Drogo knew then at that moment as the burning sun hit his brother's golden eyes perfectly, displaying the flames that had burned once his foreign Mother found her conception of him known. It was almost as if Drogo was transported back into that memory, right then in there in front of his sixty thousand men and Bhargis and his fourteen. The only thing he could smell was the acrid blood of the raw horse, his Father's musky scent of battle, his Mother's scent of fresh berries, and his Father's second wife's scent of blood and freshly cooked fish. The only thing he could see was the crinkling, dangerous…

Fire.

Fire burned in the middle of the sacred tent of Vaes Dothrak. It burned so brightly and suddenly that Drogo drew back in fear, hoping neither his Father nor his bloodriders saw his shameful actions. He was a young man of two and ten summers, already sacked his first Khalasar with nothing but six of his closest companions of similar ages, yet he was afraid of the Fire that foretold of his birth and would now foretole of his brother's.

He glanced at his Father. Worry clenching his heart unto beating powerfully against his chest, thrumming along to the beat of the drums as the dosh khaleen slammed on them painfully hard His Father was taller, taller than him by about three heads, with dark brown hair that flowed on his back to the dirt floor of their sacred tent. He was Khal Bharbo, son of Khal Ghargis, and him son of Khal Ghargo. There had never been a day that he had seen his father lose in battle, even the day when Khal Ghargis had died and he had fought the agile men that once were his Father's bloodriders; Once Uncles to him, now enemies.

His Father stood with his Mother, the Khalessi Alyn. His Mother was born with sharp features that were more austere than beautiful. Alyn had sharp perceptive black eyes that danced around the room in excitement and a pursed look, as if she had sucked a lemon dry once every day.

His Father was handsome, strong, and respected upon the Dothraki, yet Drogo could never understand why he had chosen his Mother as his first wife. Although, Drogo loved his Mother, she was harsh and sharp in areas that most Dothraki found sharp in areas. Not his Father apparently. They had been married when they were both four and ten summers, only three summers older than Drogo was himself. A summer later Drogo was born and another more, Khal Ghargis was dead and Bharbo was declared Khal after defeating four bloodriders.

His Father had married a second wife, ten years after Drogo had been born. There had been whispers that the only reason Khal Bharbo was so taken with Euroen Agasrd, was because his wife wished to share her bed. Drogo could admit that those rumors were partially true. While Alyn was harsh and formal, Euroen was soft and light. His Second Mother carried silver hair that danced whenever she walked and bright purple eyes of the foreign land she was borne on, and curves that the Dothraki men and his Mother valued. It was no surprise when his Father and Mother fell in love with her once she washed up on shore the black sea with her foreign two sisters.

_Old crones_, Drogo thought with a light, handsome smirk at the thought of Euroen's sisters. Thalya and Thi Asgasrd had the beauty of their younger sisters but the age of the Dosh Khaleen that resided in the city that they stayed at the moment.

He furrowed his brows in patience as he watched Euroen dig into the heart of the stallion. The old, thick warm voices of the Dosh Khaleen caressing him until all he could feel was peace. He was a frequent visitor of Vaes Dothrak when he was younger. He had preferred the company of the wise Dosh Khaleen, rather than the warriors of his Father's khallassar who wore thick frowns on their faces whenever he walked passed, because he was the _boy_ which caused them to cut their hair in the first time of their lives.

He had been said to become a strong, swift Khal at his Mother's own Stallion Heart ceremony two and ten summers ago, yet Drogo found himself hating that destiny. He enjoyed being apart of the Khalassar and being the Khalakka, however he knew that the fate of leading his Father's men upon Bharbo's death was not for him. He much preferred the action of slicing an enemy's head off, riding into battle, proud and strong and defending his hoard's title of most bloodthirsty and vengeful. He lacked the perception and dept a Khal needed. His Father knew he did. Both his Mother's did, and Drogo hoped his Second Mother ate the heart quickly so his brother would receive the fate he awaited.

Euroen tore viciously into the heart on the Khalassar's and Dosh Khaleen's encouragement and cheers. Her dainty, fingers, that he suspected had never been lifted in her cast over the black sea, adeptly managed to tear pieces of meat aside, shoving them into her bloody, plump mouth. His Father leaned against the edge of his chair, excitement whispering on his lips. Drogo smiled along with his Mother, the sight vastly different. He took after his handsome Father and only inherited his Mother's black eyes, not his Father's warm, inquisitive golden.

The Dosh Khaleen stopped beating, faithfully, as Euroen lifted the remaining piece of meat in her mouth, swallowing it whole, and licking her lips once the deed was finished. Most of the khalasar stared at her in lust, admiration, and bemusement. Euroen, although desirable, was notably high maintenance, used to the feeling of servants supplying and tending to all of her whims and wishes. Drogo had heard the restless nights of arguing his parents had as the impending ceremony drew upon their heads, riding on the rays of the sun. Drogo knew the times Euroen had vomited, not due to morning sickness, but sickness and worry awaiting the ceremony.

Now, however, Euroen took upon a new personality.

"_Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres," _the Dosh Khaleen whispered in unison, their voices low but caught in the tent among everyone's ears.

They repeated the phrase yet again, thumping the beat of the drum to another, steady tempo. "_Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres_." Drogo smiled harder. His brother happened to be better than he could ever be, the perfect khalakka for his Father. _The Stallion Who Mounts The World. _Drogo could see it now, bloodrider to the mighty Stallion Who Mounts The World. He could imagine the mighty battles he would throw himself in to defend his Khal's honor.

His Father turned to look at him. Telling him with his warm eyes that he was excluded from his role of being the khalakka, his new title would be a faithful bloodrider to his young brother.

"Vezh fin saja rhaesheseres," Drogo repeated along with the harsh whisper of the contents of the room. The Stallion Who Mounts The World born with the seed of Khal Bharbo and the egg of High Valyria. And most importantly in Drogo's eyes, his beloved younger brother.

As those words left Drogo's lips, he woke up in a cold sweat on his bed. The reminder was clear, sent to him straight by his God. Find his Brother or the Stallion Who Mounts The World will be simply a tale told to young warriors and not the legend painted into reality it was supposed to be.

**Alright, the Rewrite's Prelude is up. It's a little shorter than the chapters I'm going to be giving for this story. Yzavian Arturian will be changed to Arteyu Hill. They are the same person but just different names. I hope my writings changed for the good. Review! **


	2. Prelude 2

**Prelude 2**

**Vaes Dothrak**

**285 BC**

**I do not own Game of Thrones nor the cover photo either. I found the cover photo off of pinterest. **

"Drogo," Bhargis started, staring at his brother with the sharp, golden eyes that their Father had once possessed before their shared Mothers' death. "Why must I be Khal and not you?"

The two brothers sat on the shores of the Great Black Salt Sea. The same sea that had given Bhargis' deceased Mother to his Father's khalasar. White sand with bits of green foliage caressed Bhargis' skin, a summer ago he might have laughed that everytime he moved the greenery would tickle his skin, now he ignored it and simply stared into his brother's wild black eyes.

Drogo was much older than his four summers of age, it was obvious. He was a man who towered over the tallest in their khalasar, his dark caramel skin had scars of the battles he had fought. His eyes crinkled when he smiled, which was barely, unless he was in the company of his Brother, the crinkles seemed to promise death to anyone who dared disrupt the peaceful balance which his khalassar had. Burly muscles ripped in his torso with every sharp and soft breath he took, scars ran down his body, some Drogo had placed on himself.

Bhargis' counted the faint, violent dark outline each of the scars presented. Seven were long and deep enough that he could identify them to be the one's his Brother had placed upon his body after a victory. These seven were for the seven battles Drogo had rode into dangerously, hastily with only six or less men in arms. Seven khalassars added to their own. Seven additional khals that Bhargis' would one day rule.

"I'm not fit to be Khal…" Drogo started, his eyes dancing like the arrows the archers had sent to enemy khalassars. "I lack the intelligence a khal must possess, the strategy one must have when riding into battle. Father saw that trait about me and our Mothers' as well." Drogo tilted his head, teasingly towards his brother. A smile scarring his ruggedly good looks, stretching the rugged looks into something else, an almost playful handsomeness that he only reserved for his brother and wife. "You however possess that knowledge. I see it when you play with your foreign Aunts at that game…" Drogo stopped abruptly, searching his mind for the name of the game that needed great strategy.

"Chess?" Bhargis supplied, his lips curving up into a smile which displayed his rosy cheeks.

Drogo hummed in agreement. "Yes, Bhargis." Drogo dared himself to ruffle his brother's dark white locks that he kept in a small ponytail that jutted from his head, swaying restlessing in the wind.

"Sometimes, I wonder…" Bhargis started, staring at the crash of the waves, instead of his brother's face. Afraid of what his brother's reaction would be to his cowardly thoughts and words. "I wonder. What if I'm not a good enough Khal, Drogo? What if I don't possess the strength and agility you and Father have?"

Drogo's smile stretched against his cheeks, becoming harsh, amused perhaps. "You should not concern yourself with these 'What-if's' Bhargis. Those are only for the men across the Black Sea and for fretful women. We are Dothraki men, we do not worry if we cannot achieve the greatest we want. Worrying stops us from achieving it in the first place."

Bhargis glanced at his brother. He was right, he could presume. He was a Dothraki. He was not a man over the wall, no matter what was in his muddled blood, the Dothraki tainted it and made it right. His Aunt's came from over the Black Salt Sea. Bhargis had heard of how they arrived in a great big wooden horse, gifted to them by their ailing Father. Bhargis knew that most of the Dothraki wanted to rape them, but his other Mother, Drogo's birth Mother had stopped them by whsipering sweet luls of love and lust into his Father's ears.

His Mother's blood was of old Valyria. His Aunts had told him how the Asgarsd once ruled the beautiful Valyria. "_There was always an Asgarsd leading Valyria, Atreyu. We were elected once every twenty five years."_ He knew of his Aunts and Birth Mother's origins. He knew of the Asgarsd were high dragon lords, how the Targaryen line were once the bastard line of the Asgarsd. He knew when the doom's warning had come, his Valyrian namesake, Atreyu, had listened to his lover, Daenys The Dream, headings and had journeyed to the Iron Islands.

Atreyu had taken fourteen dragon eggs instead of five dragons like his lover's family. Thirteen of them which were in Bhargis' possession, one which had been given to a high-ranking Ironborne Lord's Second Son for payment in marrying his daughter. Bhargis' lines were mixed in with Old Valyria, a secondary branch of Greyjoy, and Dothraki. Bhargis knew that inspired him to dream of dragons, horses, and ships at night, and he knew it to spark his fascination with blood magic, the black sea, and dragons, the things his brothers of Dothraki despises.

Bhargis chose not to respond to his brother's answer. Instead he waited for his Brother's leave. His Brother's wife, Myssa, a bastard girl of Illyrio Mopantis who had been gifted to his Father after the threat of a Dothraki sacking loomed in the distant future for Pentos, who had in turn given her to Drogo, was pregnant with their first babe, and the Stallion Heart ceremony was tonight.

"Bhargis…" Drogo started, looking at his brother with his dark eyes. "Will you be joining us for the ceremony tonight?" It was seen as a great honor to attend the Heart Stallion ceremony of the first son of a Khal, an honor that was normally only reserved to warriors, the dosh khaleen, and men who have seen battle of the age of ten summers.

"No," Bhargis smiled, a sad smile. "It would be a bad omen for me to attend your child's ceremony." If only the two brothers had known that it would have been better if Bhargis had attended the ceremony.

Once the soft pad of Drogo's feet left the beach, Bhargis found his hand settled on the scabbard of his beloved sword. It was rare to find a sword in the Dothraki beloved city of Dosh Khaleen, but it seemed as if Bhargis often bent the rules. It was even rarer to find a four-year old boy, dothraki or not, wielding such a legendary sword. Bhargis had called the sword his possession since he was three summers years old and had found a wounded man on the shores of this very same sea.

Bhargis had tried his best to nurse the man back to health. He was an intelligent child, he knew it so, but he wasn't intelligent enough to know how to stop yellow pus from leaking out a dangerous wound with black sports adorned in it. He was however, intelligent enough to know that the Man would die. He had taken care of them man for three moons, a feat which was amazing for a three summer-ed boy to hold. The Dothraki did not take well to outsiders, especially a man who had come into their sacred city with a weapon and covered in the silver metal.

The Man had started to become delusional as the fourth moon had drawn closer. The Man had sometimes not known Bhargis' name, instead proclaiming him "Rhaegar," or "Aegon," names which had no general meaning in the ears of Bhargis but great meaning in the ears of the man.

As his last breath had drew near, the man had finally grasped the last bit of reality that was held between his fingertips. He had given Bhargis his sword, a sword which was taller than himself at the time. He had asked Bhargis to kill him. '_A mercy kill, it will be my boy. These past months have been excruciatingly painful. Washing up on a foreign land, seeing my best friend killed, and not being able to protect the little lords and ladies. O, the poor little lords and ladies,_ he had bellowed, his pale green eyes displaying the contents of sadness, _I know it isn't honorable of me to ask a poor boy like yourself to kill me. It isn't even honorable for me to give you my sword. This sword isn't mines to give, you must understand. It's my families to give. And I suppose you would have been my son in another life. Those golden eyes and mine share a tint of green in it. I suppose you would've been Rhaegar's son in another life, I'm sure of it. I'm sure of it. Or maybe I've grown mad enough and sad enough to assume, I completed my oath by protecting a pretty-haired boy like yourself to the grave. Now, however you must kill me. The little lords and ladies are dead and there is no reason for me to continue on this path. This sword that I wield, it shouldn't be my families to give, you must understand. My dying wish is to give it to you, may they respect that or pry it from your cold hands, so be it. Now kill me now, my boy or my son. Kill me and keep that sword on you, may you be free from the death that washes upon me now.' _

Bhargis had cried. He had remembered the taste of his salty tears mixed with his putrid snot. He was only a boy of three summers. Both his Mothers were dead, his Father was a shell of the Father he once was, only being a great Khal, and he only had his Brother, his friend, Nereth, and this man of mysterious origins.

Bhargis could remember as he had pried the sword from the man's grasp. He could remember how heavy it had once felt in his hands, how awkward and gangly it had felt. It was taller than him, and he had dragged it in the sand, before being able to lift it over his head and piece the man's throat. Blood had squirted on his face, blood and tears. Only a boy of three summers and having had his first kill. The man had smiled, he had a peaceful smile as he had died, his mouth outstretched to murmur the swords name, "_Dawn, she is, my son." _

A tear had managed to escape his hard, golden eyes. He sniffed, trying his best to wipe that memory away from his mind. It hurt to think about the man's death, it hurt to think about how he had got Dawn, and it hurt even more to think about he had never heard the man's name.

Bhargis wiped the tear away from face. He was always so deep in his thoughts. Much like his Father used to be, now it only seemed like his Father was deep in the past.

He glanced at the harsh, waves and idea forming in his head. Slowly, he wadded up to the shore, placing his small body into the water's grasp. Water calmed him, just like it had calmed his Mother's family, the Ironborn. He was a natural born swimmer, he wasn't even taught by his aunts. All he did was lay peacefully in the waves of the water and he floated much like an inanimate object.

So Bhargis floated in the waves. He floated, his thoughts suddenly escaping his mind and the sweet luls of the ocean, sweeping him into closing his eyes and caressing his thoughts into none. Bhargis had not thought perhaps this was a bad idea, perhaps this would provide him with head trauma or a scolding from his severe Father. He couldn't think, he wouldn't think. He wouldn't allow the power of thoughts to enter his already hot mind.

His eyes were closed, he was floating towards the distance. This was the pastime of himself that he did frequently, it wasn't as if he hadn't let himself succumb to the powerful lullaby of the waves before. However, it wasn't as if he had done it before with a nasty storm brewing ahead. If Bhargis had _simply thought_, perhaps he would have opened his eyes as he heard the thunder that only came when something ominous was brewing nearby. If only he had thought, he would have seen the clouds of dark dangerous blues and reds. Colors in the sky which had resembled the sky his Aunts had described the Great Doom had resembled.

But Bhargis did not open his eyes. He would say later, if the memories would come back to him, that he couldn't open his eyes, but he knew that to be a lie. A cowardly lie, in fact. He had willed this destiny on to himself, as did the God's he followed.

So Bhargis was swept away in the harsh waves of the sea. Much like the man who had given him the sword which still faithfully remained on his scabbard belt. The sword which would draw questions upon his arrival to Casterly Rock whether he was Arthur Dayne's bastard son. So Bhargis did not think, having been under the grasp of unconsciousness. Instead Bhargis misplaced his memories, lost not being the correct term.

In a fortnight's time, there would have been a peculair looking boy. Almost dead swept upon the shores of Casterly Rock. The only name however on his lips would have been Atreyu, not Bhargis, son of Bharbo and brother of Drogo. Instead Atreyu.

**I liked writing this so much that I decided to write another prelude to the story. So, yeah I reveled Atreyu's heritage. He has ties to the Greyjoy's, Old Valyria, and really small ties to the Targaryen. Oh also I'm looking for a beat for this story. Review! **


	3. Chapter 1

**I do not own Game of Thrones, ASOIF, or the cover photo. **

**Sansa, Arya, Tommen, Joffrey, Myrcella, Rickon, and Bran's birth years are pushed back three years.**

**Atreyu is 17**

**Gendry is 15**

**Drogo is 29**

**Tyrion is 27**

**Sansa is 15**

**Lya is 15**

**Robb is 15**

**Arya is 12**

**Bran is 11**

**Joffrey is 12**

**Myrcella is 9**

**Tommen is 10**

**Rickon is 6**

**285 BC**

**Casterly Rock**

"_I loved a maiden as fair as summer_

_with sunlight in her hair."_

"_I loved a maid as red as autumn_

_with sunset in her hair."_

"_I loved a maid as white as winter_

_with moonglow in her hair."_

Tysha ran her hands through the young boy's curly white hair, as her voice settled onto the last note of the song, leaving it hanging in the darkness of the night. He was a boy, she presumed, a little too skinny and on the fair side to be considered a handsome boy, but a boy nonetheless. If she had been a luckier, more aware girl, she would have noticed the sword on his sheath was not an ordinary one, but Tysha was not lucky nor was she more aware than normal.

When Tysha had first found the boy, he had been washed ashore on a beach that she often came to when she was a younger girl and her problems proved to be too much for her to bare. The boy had been beautiful when she had first laid eyes upon him, at first she had thought him to be a Targaryen. A wight of Rhaegar Targaryen sent to curse the Lannisters for their betrayal of the House of the Dragons, but settled on her, a poor crofter's daughter to haunt. She had never seen a Targaryen before, but she had heard of their unearthly beauty and long white locks. The boy had been beautiful floating in the water, but he had also resembled a drowned rat at best which caused her to have her suspicions with her previous conclusion.

She knew it was foolish of her to take the boy under her care. She could barely afford to feed herself and the few animals that she had left on the croft, after the rest of them were sold. She was a foolish girl, as her Father had often remarked. Her Father would have laughed at her for taking care of the boy, wasting her dwlinding food on him, caring for him when she should have been out finding a good husband to farm the croft and settle their debts. But her Father was dead and the boy was here and the boy would stay until his clock ran out. Tysha assumed that he would die very soon. His heartbeat had been faint when she had first dragged him out of the water's grip, and it had grown quieter and slower as the moons passed by

Tysha stole a glance at the boy as she rung out a rag in a wooden bucket that she had once used for slop for the pigs. There weren't any pigs left, so she had used the bucket now for heating water. He had a noble look to him with plump, pink lips, a sharp but soft nose with fair features, he could've been a bastard child of a handsome, young lord for all she knew. Dayne, she would've guessed due to his dark white hair

"The song," a voice croaked out, hoarse and quiet. Tysha stopped ringing that rag as the sound of the scratchy voice reached her eardrums. It had been so quiet in her house for so long, that she had gotten used to her voice being the only sound that greeted her ears. Tysha sharply turned her head towards the direction of her late Father's cot. She had doused it in vinegar after his death, once she had thought to sleep in it to replace her own battered bed, but it smelled too heavily of vinegar and her Father's favorite ale for her to will herself to sleep upon it.

"You never finish the song, always you end the song there. How does the song end?" The boy spoke yet again, his eyelids opening wider to reveal glimmering, bright golden eyes, they were so wet with emotion that Tysha would have assumed he had been crying if he had not been unconscious a couple minutes ago. He had a slight tilt that she identified as a foreign accent, which eliminated the possibility of him being a bastard from Westeros. He spoke his words so delicately, as if people normally quieted themselves to hear him speak. Tysha knew that even after only hearing him speak for a mere second that she had entered the category of people who quieted themselves to listen to him. Her heart thrummed irregularly, as the boy stirred under the various woolen blankets that she had thrown upon him. They probably smelled of seawater by now, Tysha knew they had clung to his flesh by the sheen of water upon them.

His skin had gained a minor flush to it, probably due to exertion or the heat from the blankets. It was a nice change from his normal color of washed out white. She knew she wouldn't have thought of him to be a ghost now, due to his peachy skin. Tysha opened her mouth to speak, but she suddenly found it dry and tasting like the sand she often submerged her feet under. The boy, although, remaining in his standard position lying on the bed, quirked his eyebrow in a confused expression at her lack of response.

"The song?" He repeated, yet again, tentatively, as if he was scared to scare her away. "How does it fini-"

"-Your name?" She interrupted, flinching at how harsh her voice sounded. The first thing she had spoken to the boy had been mean and uncaring, much different from her natural personality. That was when she saw a tear escape from the boy's eye, her hand reached out to touch him, comfort him almost as her maternal instincts demanded, before she realized the foreign situation was in. She didn't know who this boy was. She was in no state to care for another human being. She couldn't even care for herself, not an ill boy who teared up at the mention of his name and a harsh tone. He reminded her too well of her own weak nature, she didn't need someone like her to be under her guidance.

The boy frowned at her question, his eyebrows returning to their normal position and the corners of his lips drooping down from their neutral expression to a puzzled one, his eyes glistening with a confused gaze. "Atreyu, I think. I think my name is Atreyu, it's the only thing I can remember. Everything else is foggy."

Tysha's face softened at the boy's sad confused tone. The boy- No, Atreyu, didn't even know his own name, most likely the memories of his life before he was found washed on a beach by her. He was probably just as confused in this situation as her. "Alright," Tysha said grinning a nervous smile. "You're a bastard, I suppose. Atreyu Hill, it is."

The newly-proclaimed Atreyu Hill sent her back a grateful grin, a grin that showed the wisp of a handsome man he would once become Although, neither knew what they would do with the other nor how they came into the other's presence, the grounds of loyalty and familial connection were already set between one another.

**Winterfell**

**North's Brothel**

**298 BC**

Atreyu Hill, famed Sword of The Morning, Heir to Casterly Rock and all of it's holdings, betrothal to Princess Myrcella Baraetheon, surrogate son to Tyrion Lannister, bastard to the late Ser Arthur Dayne, glanced at his companion Gendry Waters in pure, unfiltered disgust. His reason of disgust was not because of his long-time friend and companion's actions, rather the situation they had both managed to get themselves in.

Atreyu had been in brothels before, in fact, he had engaged in one of the more carnal pleasures of human nature in them as well. How could he not? He was after all the surrogate son of Tyrion Lannister and had gained some of his vices and desires, if not more controlled. However, he still hated sitting in brothels, hearing the noisy sound of copulation, flesh smacking against flesh, moans of fake pleasure and desire coming out of the whore's mouths and most of all the sound of Tyrion's groaning and talk reserved only for the bedroom.

Gendry chuckled at Atreyu's bemused expression. Gendry was a handsome young man with light brown hair that resembled a wilted rose, if gleamed against the light of the sun, that shied away from his ears, bright blue eyes that sparkled often when he was amused, which he was now, soft features that still had a masculine edge to them, and spiry, lean muscles from his spars with Atreyu and his stint as a blacksmith's apprentice for Tobho Mott.

"When can we leave?" Atreyu groaned, turning his head away from the worn wooden door as he heard the sloppy pop of a mouth leaving a wet penis up against the cold, dry air. Atreyu tugged, carelessly at a lone lock of curly dark white hair that had left his bun as he stared at Gendry with an almost begging glance. "The camp has probably already arrived at Winterfell's doors."

Gendry sent Atreyu a pitying grin. "Tyrion has to complete his conquest of tasting every kingdom of Westeros, my dear friend," he added quickly, "I'm surprised you're not doing the same." Gendry teased Atreyu with a light tone in his voice, making it clearly known that he was only jesting his friend.

Atreyu's sexual conquests were not known by most, they were regarded as a well-known secret by him and the other half of the sexual escapades. He did frequently visit Chataya's brothel in King's Landing every moon to get his full of sexual pleasure from his longtime friend Alayaya, a girl with a sweet disposition and an even sweeter taste, but hardly anyone knew of his moonly visits. There had been a peasant girl at Casterly Rock that he fell deeply in love with during his youth with a beautiful smile, large breasts and an even larger frame that had fallen ill of Greyscale once he journeyed back to King's Landing to squire under his surrogate Uncle Jaime Lannister. Also a girl or two, or three, or seven from his two summers in Dorne. And there had been that one time with Daemon Sand-

Atreyu shook himself about the incoming memory of his experimental time in Dorne. When in Dorne, he had felt the consumable urge to try _everything_, which was still proving to either be beneficial to him or dismaying to the onslaught of memories which forced themselves on him every time he thought of his close friend Daemon.

"I believe I shall stick with my friend in the South."

"Aww. Alayaya," Gendry drawled out, a laugh bubbling in the back of his throat. "Might you still be as in love with her as you were four summers ago?"

"Fuck off, Gendry," Atreyu responded, tauntingly, a bit miffed at the reminder of his deep feelings of love for Alayaya. Although, those feelings and that part of his life were over, the thought of them still left a prickly sense of unease in the pit of his stomach.

The Brothel Owner, a short man with beady eyes and graying, thin brown hair, chose that moment to rush up to the two young men. "I couldn't help but hear of your discomfort, m'lord," he mumbled, almost groveling on his feet in front of Atreyu as his tongue clicked on the base of his mouth. He sent a slimy glare to Gendry, which caused the boy in question to tighten his jaw.

"Yes," Atreyu said, choosing to glance anywhere from the man who had to be at least four heads shorter than his own sprawling height of six feet five, the man had to have only been about a foot taller than Tyrion, who was often referred to as the Imp by the lesser peasants. He choose not to correct him on his title or his blatant disrespect of Gendry, used to people referring to him as a Lord's son even though he was no better than any other bastard.

"I have many other whores with an interest of bedding the Imp, if you offer a certain compensation for their worth."

Atreyu took to gazing at the several women behind the brothel owner, all nude and barred to the world in the male gaze. Atreyu stole a look at Gendry, who was obviously uncomfortable with the women looking at him with a deep, hungry gaze and some with a scared gazes. Gendry had shown no interest in girls since puberty reached him, and the fuzz of hair started growing on his chest and chin, to the displeasure of many girls due to his handsome appearance and akin looks to a young, more handsome Robert Baraetheon.

"I believe my Uncle, not the Imp, would prove to be very fruitful to your fortunate offer. But might I suggest you speak of your superiors and pocket filler in better graces?" Atreyu responded back, his tone carrying a haughty tint to it that he rarely reserved for anyone.

"Yes, m'lord," the man responds, gulping back. Anger evident in his eyes, but intimidation evident in him as his adam's apple as it bobbed up and down due to Atreyu's dark glance.

As the man's voice landed on the last sound the word 'lord,' could produce, Atreyu's hand was already on the door handle open it wide, to reveal Tyrion lazily sitting on the bed with his most recent conquest.

"Atreyu," Tyrion drawled, familiarity littering his voice tone, "Must you have no modesty? Can't you see when a man beds a woman he needs privacy.

Tyrion Lannister was a pale comparison to his brother, the Kingslayer, and an even paler comparison to Atreyu Hill. With sandy blonde locks that were complemented by dark black locks and a sharp face with handsome features and that was when the Lannister beauty in him welled out, he had a short stature and a way of talking that often confused, less smarter people. Most women shied away from his honeyed tone and rejected his advances due to his shorter than average height.

"You are no man," Atreyu pointed out, sharply. Tyrion's companion looked at him with a dark glance as he leaned, tranquilly onto the doorframe, making himself comfortable. Ateryu knew he was handsomer than most. How could he not? When he had the perfect mixture of Dayne's blood in him and foreign blood from Essos. With long, tousled, dark white hair that he always kept in a bun with messy bangs, plump, pink, kissable lips equipped with a noticeable cupid's bow, a sharp jawline, tanned skin, and a strong physique he had often been compared to a younger Arthur Dayne, Rhaegar Targaryen, Jaime Lannister, and Robert Baraetheon in terms of looks. That however, didn't mean that he slept with anything that had two legs.

"Enlighten me on what I am, you ingrate?" Tyrion responded back, his eyelids falling slightly.

"You are a lion," he remarked, rather matter factly

"I believe that statement to be faulty on the highest order."

"The camp has already arrived at Winterfell. I've heard that the King has already visited the crypts to greet his decrepit love," Atreyu said ending the light banter between him and Tyrion.

"And how does this entail me?" Tyrion said, lazily twirling a digit around his latest conquest's nipple.

"It entails you because I and Gendry would like to eat. Good food, _decent _food. My horses as well." The whore watched with mild fascination on the two's conversation, she had heard tales of their relationship, but it in action was so much heartwarming, the two actually acted like a bitter Father-and-Son duo.

"You and you boy-toy can eat after I finish eating my meal," Tyrion responded, rather suggestively.

Atreyu gritted his teeth, ignoring the whore's bemusement and Tyrion's foreplay to her breast. "Gendry isn't my companion like that, Tyrion and you know it. I know how much you like to taste every flavor the kingdoms have, so I and the brothel owner have graciously prepared you a meal."

Atreyu opened the door wider to allow the rest of the whores who had been listening to the conversation waltz in, throwing themselves on the wide bed in a fit of giggles.

"Oh my," Tyrion said, rather happily, "You sure do know how to treat me, Atreyu."

Atreyu closed the door with a grimace. The things he would do for Tyrion. Gods, he hated brothels

**Author's Note: **Don't kill me because this is unedited and short. I need more reviews because it will make me write more. I hate this chapter, like its probably one of the worse things I've written. I had to rewrite it five times just to get it like this and it sucks. Review for who you want in the harem. It's already set but it would be nice to hear your opinion. Do you like Atreyu (and his relationship with Tyrion)?Also next chapter will come quicker because I want to introduce the Dotrhaki and Dany. 


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